


Shots

by Sulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clubbing, Exhibitionism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a prompt in my <a href="http://users.livejournal.com/sulla_/343595.html">prompt box</a> by Kiharukitty on Livejournal.</p><p>Further note: a certain amount of suspension of disbelief is needed for this fic because we all know that Sherlock would never drink on a case, let alone get soused, but it was part of the prompt and I couldn't really think of a totally IC way of doing it.  But if you're looking for some 'entertainment' for the evening, well, hopefully you can get past the drinking and enjoy the fic, cause that's what it's there for :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shots

The flashing lights are hypnotic to say the least, and the deep throb of bass feels like it is fighting an internal battle with John's heartbeat. The mingled scent of scores of cologned bodies clashes in his nose, keeping the undertone of stale beer and sweat at bay for the time being. Pairs and larger groups of scantily clad and even topless men gyrated enthusiastically on the flooded dance floor, sweat-slicked bodies shimmering in the light. On the edges of the room are grouped tall tables with equally tall chairs, each and every one of them occupied and each table bristling with half-full and empty drink containers. The faces at the tables are cloaked in darkness when viewed from the dance floor, and it was clear that those there are the onlookers, and the dancers are the entertainment. Occasionally one or two would rise from their seats and join the fray on the floodlit floor, and just as fast their seats would be taken by revelers who had already enjoyed their fill of dancing.

Off to one side was the bar, a long, solid oak monstrosity that no doubt dominated the room when it was empty, but was now just a shadow. Barkeepers hustled back and forth behind the bar, filling shouted orders and taking money and making change, occasionally pocketing a little extra for themselves at the patron's direction. Behind the bar and off to one side is a dark hallway whose walls were draped with scarlet curtains, and every so often a pair or sometimes a group, would meander their way through the crowd only to disappear into this hallway, only to return some time later alone or in disjointed twos and three. John was fully aware of what happened in the rooms at the end of hallways like that, he had heard of such things, and the very thought was enough to bring heat to his face.

But John was not here to think about sex, and nor was he here to drink and relax. Drinking, however, even though it was something they had planned to avoid, looked like it was in the cards for the night. The man he and Sherlock were watching had already noticed them, and being a suspitious-natured person he was certain to have realized that he was being watched for something other than his body if John and Sherlock refrained from drinking at all. After all, there was nothing so unnatural as a pair of men at a club without a single drink between them to wet their whistles.

"I do not drink while on a case, as you know. Ever. But is this situation, we had better do as the natives do, or we shall be outed ourselves as interlopers," Sherlock stated, before sending John to get them drinks.

So John worked stolidly on his pint of ale while Sherlock took delicate sips at his vodka martini, making little faces of distaste every time he swallowed. Sherlock was certainly not a drinking man, and it was painfully clear in the way he drank; John found this funnier than perhaps he should, especially considering the circumstances.

Both men carefully surveyed the room, systematically covering all exits with their eyes, keeping a constant eye on their target, who was now dancing in a group of three young men. But because of the way dancers on the floor moved, it was becoming more and more difficult to pick the man out of the crowd. The man was topless, like perhaps 60% of the men on the floor, and he blended in a little too well.

"John, we're losing sight of him. We'll have to dance. Come on," said Sherlock, already on his feet, reaching for John's hand as he threw back the dregs of his martini. John was in shock. Sherlock, _dancing_? It was a little like imagining a Komodo Dragon doing the tango. It just didn't work.

And as soon as they got on the dance floor, it was very, very clear that it did indeed _not_ work. Sherlock was stiff as a board, and looked atrociously out of place on the dance floor. Not that he wasn't dressed for it - he was impeccably dressed as always, and had been careful to wear somewhat flashy and yet not outrageous clothing, and had attempted to help John do the same. Unfortunately, John's wardrobe was not quite up to the challenge, and he had ended up in a pair of dress trousers and a button-down shirt. Sherlock had been obliged to wrestle the jumper out of John's hands when he had tried to put it on. No, it was not the clothing that was the problem, but Sherlock's moves. He looked sort of like a flailing fish, and it was not flattering. A few people around them were giving them looks, but most of the men seemed ready to forgive Sherlock his eccentric dancing because of his looks and somewhat commanding presence. Or at least, that's how John interpreted it.

Sherlock needed to relax. And John was trying to figure out a way to help when the cry of "Shots!" went up, and a speedo-clad young man was out on the dance floor handing shot glasses to everyone who was dancing. Sherlock and John both started to refuse, but noticed their quarry watching them, so they accepted the tubes of bright red liquid. Watching as everyone around them threw back the liquid in one swallow, John and Sherlock attempted to do the same, with John immediately dissolving into a fit of coughing as the drink went down into his lungs instead of his stomach. Sherlock pounded his back with his hand.

"Yeah, sorry, went down... down the wrong..." John hacked between breaths.

"Yes."

And before John had recovered, a second round of shots, this one with green liquid, was send around, and the two men quaffed this with considerably more ease. The man they were watching downed two in a row and was nearly hanging off his friend, all but collapsing in laughter at some private joke.

A new song started, and the bass pounded like it never had before, or so it seemed to John. The colours were brighter, and he didn't know if it was just him, but it appeared.that Sherlock suddenly knew how to dance. And how to dance _well_. John found himself watching Sherlock more than the mark, and was greatly impressed with the way the man moved when he'd had a few in him. John was about to make a comment regarding this when Sherlock moved forward a few steps, immediately and easily entering John's personal space, and bracketing one of his legs with both of Sherlock's.

Sherlock was leaning down a little, staring into John's face as he began to dance closer and closer into John. John was rather confused, as Sherlock had taken his eyes off the mark and were instead focusing on John himself. The man's personal scent was all-pervading to his senses, and he felt blood rushing both to his face and to his crotch as he realized that he was getting hard. Well, it's not like he could help it, he thought desperately, with Sherlock all but humping his leg! And after all, he was of late fast coming to a state where he associated Sherlock with sex at all times.

And at that very thought Sherlock closed the last inch of space between them and he rubbed his hips up against John. Both men groaned, the sound muted by the pounding music, but not so much that they didn't hear each other. John's erection was pinned upright in his trousers, and he helplessly grinding his cock into Sherlock's hip. But he didn't feel so bad, as the other man was doing the same thing in return.

"SHOTS!"

The cry went up again and the little tubes of red liquid made another round. They pulled back from each other, John fighting a little surge of disappointment as they peeled apart. Both John and Sherlock downed another shot and before John could turn to look for where their mark had gone, Sherlock had taken John by the hips and was once again grinding against him in time to the music. John's eyes closed in sodden bliss as the taller man leaned down and mouthed at his neck under his ear, kissing and nibbling the skin beneath his lips. He raised a hand up to bury it in Sherlock's black curls, holding the man's head there as they engaged in public frottage.

John's world was spinning. And not in a bad way. Yet. He was not stupid enough to think that this evening was not going to end with he and Sherlock fighting over the toilet, but he was also just inebriated enough not to care. He didn't know how far along Sherlock was in his drunkenness, but if it was anywhere near where John was, he was going to be in for a hell of a morning tomorrow.

John was gripping Sherlock's hips and trying to get just that little extra bit of friction on his cock as they danced when Sherlock whispered directly into his ear. "There. They've adjourned to the back room. We shall follow."

Eyes growing wide at this proclamation, John was immediately pulled after Sherlock by his hand, cock leaking into his pants and across the club and into the red-draped hallway beside the bar. Indeed, at the end of the hallway, where the darkness opened up into a larger, even darker room, he could see their mark disappearing with some dark-haired Adonis. So he allowed himself to be pulled down the hallway, not really thinking about what they would do when they got into that back room. He literally entered the room with his mind a blank slate, and so was not at all prepared for what he saw.

What he saw was sex. And a lot of it. Sex in every position, in every possible kind of grouping and formation that could be achieved with only men in attendance. There was blow jobs, hand jobs, anal sex in dozens of positions, men with their tongues in each other's arseholes and...

Suddenly he was slammed up against the dark red wall of the room and Sherlock was whispering in his ear. The man didn't sound drunk at all. It wasn't fair.

"Don't _stare_ , John. You look like a fish, gaping at them all like that. We'll just do as everyone else does until the mark leaves again. Okay? We can't risk losing him at this point, I don't want to take my eyes off him."

John was dubious. He'd been watching Sherlock all night, and most of the night Sherlock had been watching back. His eyes had been off the mark more than half the time they had been at the club. But he knew it wouldn't do him any good to say it aloud, so he didn't bother.

Suddenly Sherlock's fists clamped onto his lapels, and he swung them around so that Sherlock himself was backed against the wall and facing out, and John had his back to the room. John felt slightly dizzy from the move, but didn't fight it when Sherlock's hand pushed down on his shoulder, indicating that he should get on his knees. John of course knew what the man wanted; he was used to Sherlock's totally socially unacceptable sexual cues, and didn't even bother feeling perturbed by the dominating manner the man pulled off. If anything, this time it turned him on.

John sank to his knees with Sherlock's help, still slightly favouring his phantom leg injury. He glanced quickly to the left and right, and was confronted on both sides by men servicing other men orally. He chanced a look up at Sherlock, and found that he was staring at a point behind John, probably keeping an eye on the mark. John, slightly put off by this, even though it was why they were there in the first place, decided to do his best to take Sherlock's attention back.

He unbuckled Sherlock's belt first, then pulling down his zipper and peeling back the opening to his trousers. He was confronted with a long, solid lump of cotton, wet at the tip, and John kissed it delicately before nuzzling the clothed cock. Sherlock's hips thrusted minutely, and John knew he was on his way. He then gripped the man's trousers and pants in both hands and pulled both down until Sherlock was bared to the room from navel to thigh.

Sherlock's cock bounced up as soon as it was free, long and thick and already wet at the tip. The foreskin was all the way pulled back, and John's mouth started to water as he stared at it.

Suddenly a hand came down and clamped onto his shoulder, holding him in position. Sherlock's other hand came down and circled around his own prick, and after giving it a couple of tugs, he took it by the base and began to use the head of it to rub his precum into John's skin. The hand on John's shoulder moved up to cup the back of his head, and John panted as Sherlock painted both cheeks with a stripe of wetness. He tapped each eyelid with the head, and, as John kept his mouth shut for the moment, he drew his cock across the seam of his lips several times. Then Sherlock took himself by the base again and slapped his cock against John's cheek, several times on both sides. John gasped, open-mouthed, in surprised delight.

By this point John was so hard in his pants that he thought something would surely burst. He looked up and saw that Sherlock's eyes were now on him, and were glittering savagely in the barely-lit dimness. John kept his mouth open, and allowed his eyes to fill with the longing he was feeling; he wanted that cock in his mouth, needed to suck on it's thickness. Sherlock obliged him, directing the head between John's lips and laying it on his tongue. He took his hand away and placed it on one side of John's head, and his other hand moved from the back to the other side of his head.

John held his head still as Sherlock began to fuck his mouth. He kept his mouth open and his teeth covered, and did his best to suck on each withdrawal, but beyond that John had no control at all. And that was just the way he liked it.

The thumping music from down the hall was loud enough that the crude sounds his throat was making were obscured to all but him, and he was able to focus on the thickness that was pounding the back of his mouth. He steeled his gag reflex, and each thrust of Sherlock's hips drove him deeper and deeper into John's throat. Too much spit had gathered in John's mouth, and since he couldn't swallow it due to Sherlock's frantic thrusting movements, it began to overflow from his mouth and drip down John's lips and down Sherlock's cock and onto his balls and even into his pubic hair. John's nose was filled with the musky scent of Sherlock's crotch, and each and every thrust was marked by the slapping of the taller man's balls against John's chin.

Those balls were starting to rise up, the scrotal sack drawing up tight as Sherlock prepared to come, and John looked up into the drunken eyes of his partner, boyfriend and flatmate. This seems to have made Sherlock pause for a moment, and instead of coming down John's throat, as would have been usual, he pulled out. And he didn't even pull out to jack off on John's face or into his hair; no, instead he pulled out all together and pulled John up to stand in front of him.

John swallowed as soon as his mouth was free, getting rid of the built-up saliva by the time he was standing. Sherlock was looking over his shoulder, presumably at the mark, who appeared to still be present.

Sherlock leaned in close to John's ear again and whispered, "On your hands and knees, John."

Closing his eyes for a moment, John quickly sank right back down onto his haunches. As he turned around he finally had the chance to get a look at the mark, and was somewhat surprised to see that the man was bottoming for the dark-haired man he'd seen before. But he appeared to be topping from the bottom, as even all the way across the room it was clear to John that the mark was the one in charge.

Not so with he and Sherlock. The detective was always in firm control when it came to their sexual escapades. John had never thought to consider that he might have the mind of a bottom in the depths of his personality, as he felt perfectly and happily in charge in his relationships with women. But it had all changed with Sherlock, and John was happy to cede control for sometimes hours at a time and just let Sherlock use him as needed. He allowed himself to be ridden hard and put away wet, and he loved every minute of it.

John unbuckled his trousers and lower them and his pants until his arse was free along with his cock and balls. He lowered himself to his knees and then his front half down onto his elbows, so that he was presenting his arse for Sherlock's needs. He did his best not to look around him at all the other men engaging in sex, as he wasn't certain he liked the idea of them staring back, but it was a little late for squeamishness. Behind him he could feel Sherlock shuffling closer when the buckle of his belt scrapped across the back of John's thigh.

Beside him the couple who were engaging on oral sex were just finishing up. The music was a little quieter back here, but the bass still thudded on and the sound was added to by the grunts and groans of the men all around them. The man on his knees gagged a little as he swallowed the other man's come and John saw him leaning in to the man's leg as he jerked his own cock until he came.

His attention was brought back to his own situation as Sherlock plunged three fingers directly into John's arse. They were slick fingers, thankfully - no surprise as he knew Sherlock carried a sachet of lube with him at all times - but they were a bit much to take with no preparation and no warning. John winced a little at the stretch, but in truth it really wasn't painful, just uncomfortable. He squeezed his internal muscles down on Sherlock's fingers, earning him a teasing slap on the arse. He smirked as the three fingers became four, and then all of them disappeared altogether.

There was not long to wait though, as Sherlock quickly slicked the length of his cock as John watched over his shoulder, and then placed the head of his cock at John's waiting hole. John didn't want to wait. He tried to force his body back on to Sherlock's cock, only to have the other man pull back and dodge away from his lunges.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, fuck me!" he growled, surely not loud enough to be heard, but he was surprised by the outbreak of laughter on both sides of him. _Had_ he been that loud? Fuck it, he didn't care - in all honesty, he was too drunk to care.

Sherlock took pity on him thankfully and eased his hips forward, splitting John's arse apart as he took Sherlock's impressive length and girth inside himself. John shoved backwards so that they came together like puzzle pieces, meant for each other from the start. Once fully entrenched in John's body, Sherlock stayed still and seemed to simply delight on feeling John squeeze and shiver and quake around his invading prick.

John was growing impatient and began to rotate his hips in little circles, pulling forward a bit and then rotating back onto the cock inside him. He felt Sherlock clasp one hip in his hand, and then the other hand reached around and clasped John's cock. Finally!

Sherlock managed to stroke John's cock thrice before everything fell apart. John was reveling on the heavy hand stroking his cock and the slip and slide of the cock churning inside him when suddenly the hand on his cock was gone, and with no warning he was empty as well. John gasped aloud at the abrupt departure and was left on his knees staring in shock as Sherlock struggled to his feet, pulling up his pants and trousers as he went.

"John! Get up! He left! Fuck - how did I miss - shit!" and with that Sherlock bolted from the room, leaving John on all fours with a wide-open arsehole trying to shut down on nothing.

John looked around him and realized that every man in the room was staring at him. And indeed, the place where the mark had been so skillfully topping from the bottom had been replaced by a older, pudgier couple. Who also were staring at him.

"Bugger. Or, well, not," John grated out, and knelt up to pull his pants and trousers to right. He climbed to his feet with as much dignity as he could conjure, and left the room, staggering slightly as he made his way back into the main club. He still felt empty, as if Sherlock should still be inside him.

He found Sherlock standing outside the club looking enraged. "I'm never drinking on a case again."

"Good," replied John. "Now take me home and finish what you started, you bastard."

*****


End file.
